


Pipe Dreams and Stolen Time

by privatesnarker



Category: Die Dreigroschenoper | Threepenny Opera - Brecht/Weill
Genre: ? - Freeform, AKA, Berlin (City), Budapest, Cuddling & Snuggling, Implied/Referenced Abuse, London, M/M, Opium, Recreational Drug Use, or maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 20:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3087050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/privatesnarker/pseuds/privatesnarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>How Mack came to be entangled with the owners of an opium den, Tiger will never know – in his function as police official he does not even know of the existence of such a place, much less what it looks like from the inside. It is truly a blessing that Brown the policeman is so very badly informed of the movements of Brown the civilian, otherwise one of these days he would have to arrest himself.</i>
</p>
<p>Once a week, always at the same time, Mack takes Tiger on a little excursion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pipe Dreams and Stolen Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



> "If you can pull off a not totally creepy moment between them, uh, more power to you. Maybe Mackie's less of an asshole when he's high on opium?" This prompt was given for a Halloween exchange, but better late than never, right? :p

How Mack came to be entangled with the owners of an opium den, Tiger will never know – in his function as police official he does not even know of the existence of such a place, much less what it looks like from the inside. It is truly a blessing that Brown the policeman is so very badly informed of the movements of Brown the civilian, otherwise one of these days he would have to arrest himself.

No-one talks to them when they enter, punctual as is Mack’s wont, no-one even looks up, and if anyone will ask whether a scarred man, English, with white gloves and a walking-stick was seen, the answer in the negative will not be a lie. But everyone steps aside for Mack to swan through unhindered, Tiger trailing in his wake like the ghost of a loyal hunting dog. Officially, this is Mack’s appointment and his alone. Does he return on another day of the week, does he do it in different company? Ignorance is bliss. In the back of the low smoky room, a thick curtain creates a secluded space for two shabby divans with a small table besides each. As soon as they’re settled in and the attendant has left, no-one will dare disturb their privacy.

Out of the two of them, Mack is the only one here to smoke. On some days, he will do so in silence, brood in silence, leave in silence; and Tiger will have to count the hours spent being ignored as wasted. Most days though, Mack will start talking, and Tiger will crouch awkwardly on the too-short divan and take it all in. He listens religiously, not for the words’ meaning, but for their shape. Long words, new words, shiny elegant ones: Mack likes to steal them just as he does watches, coins, and lives, and he adorns himself with them like a crow wearing the colorful feathers of other birds. But as he talks, and talks, and keeps talking, pipe long laid aside and forgotten, the precious gems crusting his speech fall off one by one, and his carefully smoothed accent grinds itself up, as if time had started running backwards. The moment Tiger can hear the street Mack was born in, and the village his father moved out of into the big city, he knows it’s safe to come over.

The divan was very obviously created with one single occupant in mind, and a slight one at that. Of course Mack would never think to make room for anyone besides himself. Tiger has to curl around and on top of him like a snake warming itself on a hot stone, legs and spine bent so he can lay his head on Mack’s chest. The only acknowledgment of his presence is the hand resting heavy on his waist, for once neither threat nor promise. Mack is talking as if to himself now, low tone somehow more intimate than a whisper. Tiger can feel the rumble and vibration of it alongside the rise and fall of every breath, like the breaking of waves on a beach. Just sitting in the smoke-filled room for so long has been enough to make his head swim a little; still, he would not dare to fall asleep in so precarious a position, just in case Mack were to come to first. For the moment though, his perception is pleasantly constricted to his immediate surroundings, with his mind in a faraway place and a happier time. 

Mack’s words are growing slow, the spaces between them longer and longer, until only regular breaths are left. Tiger lets the silence drag on for some time, allowing himself the luxury of a light doze. As his musings take on a life of their own and threaten to grow into independent dreams, he forces his eyes open and slowly turns his head to look up. Mack is fast asleep now, throat exposed and vulnerable. Tiger wriggles out of his slackened hold, careful, careful, dragging himself upwards without moving his legs – too fast, the sudden exertion makes the room turn and black spots dance before his eyes, he nearly loses his balance and crashes down. He can feel sweat gathering on his forehead while he holds himself absolutely still and waits for his vision to clear and the queasiness to pass, even as his shoulders and arms are starting to ache. For a few monumental seconds, he simply looks down on Mack’s still face, awe-struck and daunted. Then, before his courage can leave him completely, he bows his head – just a hasty touch, between one frantic heartbeat and the next, but as reverent as any churchgoer kissing an ikon.  
Settling back down gingerly, he should not feel so light. Brown the policeman would frown at this violation and indecency, Brown the friend rage against this betrayal of trust, but Jackie, the man hiding below the roles and responsibilities, feels like a dreadful wrong has been put to right. In the complicated bartering system that is their friendship, nothing sells as costly as Mack’s kisses. After all the price always reflects the demand, and a kiss from Mack – always given out, never received – can only be bought with pain and sacrifice almost too big to bear. Not his loyalty Tiger has to cash in, not even his blood – it’s his pride Mack asks, over and over again. As is his right as a vendor, of course. But a tiny rebellious part of Tiger chafes against this state of affairs, and this part is now filling him with giddy excitement at this smallest of triumphs. Soon he will have to get up and tiptoe over to the other side of their private little corner, fall asleep to be woken up by a rough hand shaking his shoulder, and the cold city will have him back. Mack never mentions anything that happened during their stay in the house of dreams and escape, he certainly doesn’t act like he remembers. But for now, for one glorious stolen moment, all is right in the world of Tiger Brown.


End file.
